


Marionette

by Pharaoh_Ink



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharaoh_Ink/pseuds/Pharaoh_Ink
Summary: Fifty looms over him like a heavy weight. He feels suspended over a stage, but the mask is gone, and the strings are inescapable. He struggles to take control back over his life, but there's always a setback, always pain, and always a strained smile. Playtime's over.





	1. Chapter 1

When had life stopped being fun? He couldn't for the life of him remember the last time that he'd had a good time. A _real_ good time. Crime had been its own brand of fun for a while, but even that had been sullied. There were many reasons for that, it wasn't _just_ the who that was sullying it, a certain masked mallard who was hellbent on ruining a good time, but there were other factors that certainly contributed.

He acknowledged that for once in his life, he had gone too far. Been too far gone, really. He had stopped playing, stopped pretending, and even the mask couldn't really hide anything anymore. He was angry. More than angry, he was infuriated at life for giving him such a terrible hand of fate. Infuriated at his competitors who had linked arms with good fortune. Even more than that, he was angry at himself for wasting so much of his life away, just to be bitter. No one had lost anything but him, in the end.

And he was still losing to this very day.

His eyes flickered dully up at the clock that forty-five long and tedious minutes had passed over. He urged time to move faster, but no amount of persistent mental will could press the second hand.

"Jack, I think you're making significant progress."

He shifted uncomfortably, bouncing his leg, as his brow furrowed. "I've heard that one before."

"....Well yes. You've made strides before in the past, and you've had a few.... _setbacks._ But no one is perfect, Jack. People don't lose the miles they've gained by stopping in the middle of the road. They just cease to move forward. But now you've resumed. There's no absolute perfect way to do this."

"I've _resumed_ , allow me to throw the confetti." He remarked dryly. "...I don't even know what I'm moving _towards_."

"It doesn't have to be something big or ominous. You can set small goals that lead up to the big ones. Think of it as though you're taking a bus across the country. Each new destination on the way to the other side are the smaller, easier to bite off goals, and before you know it, you've arrived."

"Like _what_?" He sounded exasperated.

"Well what have you been doing in your spare time?"

"I just have _so_ much of time lying around now, I hardly know what to do with myself. I spend _hours_ staring at the wall in my apartment. Oh, and when three o' clock rolls around, that's when it gets _real_ wild- I take a nap."

" _Jack_."

He sighed listlessly, rolling his eyes. "Well what do you expect for me to do? I don't have anything to call my own anymore. I don't have anyone I can talk to, thanks to _all of you_."

"Jack, there's a whole plethora out there of things for you to discover. It's not too late to find them, or to learn new things about yourself. I know that your craft is a big part of your identity, and no one is saying you can't engage that side of yourself, but it has to be done in a creative, constructive manner."

"It doesn't matter what any of you say. I can't make toys anymore. I just can't. I've tried. They don't come out right. They're lacking in something, something I just can't wrap my head around. But they're _empty_. It's all so empty."

"It feels empty because you've filled those spaces with negative energy. And now that it's not there anymore, it feels empty to you. But you can still fill those parts of your life, with healthier, more productive coping mechanisms."

He sighed heavily. "I'm _trying_. All I can say is, I'm trying."

"I know, and you're doing well. You're doing the very best that you can, and that's all that matters."

 _So placating. As if he were a child._ He stared up at the clock, narrowing his eyes.

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try your hand at other hobbies, hm? You mentioned you also made scrapbooks at some point, didn't you?"

He stiffened, "...Yeah. A long time ago."

"You seem a little hesitant to talk about them. Why might that be?"

"...It's... it's nothing really. It's just...what my last therapist had suggested. It helped for a while but. It just reminds me of a bad time in my life, that's all."

_Like everything else. What didn't at this point?_

"Oh? Well perhaps another hobby. What else have you been interested in?"

He just wanted to leave. Why was this clock so tortuously evil?

"I don't know." He shrugged a shoulder.

"There must be _something_ , Jack."

Anything to get out of this office.

"I guess I like taking pictures." He offered in a non-committal way.

"Oh! Photography? That can be a wonderful hobby!"

Jack suppressed the urge to sneer, eyeing that one minute in a strangling sort of way, hands clasped tightly together against his lap.

"Why don't you try taking some photos this week, and let me know how it goes! I'm sure if you poured your energy into something positive, you'll see what a difference it can make in how you feel."

"...Sure. Fine."

"I mean it Jack. Just try a few sessions, see how it affects you. There's nothing to be lost."

That one earned a chuckle. Jack surprised even himself, not having heard himself laugh in a long while now. Still, a far cry from the manic sounds that used to escape him. He regarded his therapist with drawn, tired, glazed over eyes, and he shook his head. "You're right. What more _can_ I lose?"


	2. Chapter 2

He felt trapped most of the time.

There was a severe, distinct resistance to most things modern. He didn't dissuade from exploring new ideas, but the effort to stay relevant in a society that hyper-fixated on advancement in ways he deemed detrimental was difficult for him. He was caught between two eras, one that was disappearing, it seemed, and one that was rapidly firing ahead to the future without him.

He owned a cell phone, nothing fancy. He didn't know how to utilize most of the applications or features of it. He didn't even text. Not that he couldn't figure it out, but he preferred not to.

Not that he really had anyone left to talk to, these days.

His apartment that he was given was simple enough. Boring, bland, neutral colors. He didn't have many belongings left on hand. In the very beginning, when he lost his company, he had eventually lost his home too. Everything went under, he was left with relics and memorabilia, which were only of interest and fondness to himself. He couldn't sell them off even if he had wanted to. Quackerjack Toys had left a bad taste in everyone's mouths.

_That was their fault though. Not his._

Or at least, that was what he wanted to so desperately say and think, but it didn't help to deny the truth anymore. The truth of the matter was that he had lost his way, and he had acted out of sheer desperation to save his sinking company. He was willing to try any tactic to get sales up, but to no avail. Virtual violence seemed alright, but as soon as such properties were realized in the tangible form of his toys, people got all up in arms over it. It hadn't made sense to him at the time.

Part of him wanted to admit that it still didn't, all these years later.

He had just wanted to give everyone what they wanted. And they destroyed him for it. He'd never be anything more than a fading memory of terror that had once roamed the streets of St. Canard.

So maybe he was holding too tightly to the past, but was a future of either path of villainy or recovery any more fulfilling or satisfying?

A clicking sound filled the apartment as he shuffled through the rooms. Around his neck was an old camera, the last of his original belongings that had followed him from warehouse to warehouse. He paused in the doorway of his bedroom, dull eyes staring out over a familiar face stitched into a goofy, uneven smile. He didn't hear much out of that one these days. Probably for the best, his therapist would assure him.

He held up the camera, pointing it at the doll, and snapped.

They'd managed to wrestle him out of the costume eventually, though it took months for them to take the head wear off. As soon as the air had hit his face, it stung as if someone had smacked him. Although they'd taken the costume, there were some things, little things, that he'd been allowed to keep.

The doll was one of the few allowed to remain in his possession, if only because he'd been the most attached to that above all others. _For sentimental values_ , he argued. But it was far more than that.

He wandered over to the window staring out into the rain drenched streets below and wondered how much easier people slept without the Fearsome Five running rampant. Though there were younger crews to take the place- grim little punks who lacked the style and theatrics, there was just no fun to committing crime these days! Everyone had to be so serious!

Maybe he was a little biased. He always liked their little band of misfits best though. Especially back during the brief stint that he'd run it. Oh that had been _fun_. But also terrible. That had arguably been one of the lower points of his life. He had been made a laughing stock, forced to work for a company that didn't take his idea seriously, and as a result of months of frustration, he'd snapped and took matters into his own hands. That had been the time Darkwing had vanished too without a trace. The whole thing had been so boring!

Well.

 _Almost_ all of it had been boring.

...No, he wasn't going to think about her anymore. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. Living out every painful memory as if it could ever be reality again. It couldn't. They were closer to dreams now more than anything. She never thought of him, he was sure of it. He was a time in her life better forgotten, he'd put her through hell.

He could hang onto a lot of things- his anger, old toys, bad ideas...but she was the only thing he'd ever let go of. And not because he _wanted_ to. He had to.

It wasn't fair to put her through his problems. It wasn't fair to continue to make her worry. He'd stopped accepting her letters she sent to him in the facility they'd put him in years ago. As much as he wanted to linger on words of adoration and comfort, he didn't deserve them. She was too beautiful a person to have to put up with someone as severely damaged and flawed as he was.

It was better that she moved on and forgot him, like the rest of St. Canard.


End file.
